


Reflections

by Nymphalis_antiopa



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Submits to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, Love Confessions, M/M, My First Fanfic, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:35:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24823201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphalis_antiopa/pseuds/Nymphalis_antiopa
Summary: Aziraphale tries to process what happened on the Almost Last Day of the World, reflects on his own actions in recent and distant past, and Crowley rises to the occasion.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 118





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this from Aziraphale's point of view after seeing [this post](https://xofemeraldstars.tumblr.com/post/620924983994171392/1abbynewth6-ileolai) on Tumblr.

It was a chilly evening, for the end of summer. Aziraphale was glad of his layers, miraculously reconstituted in perfect detail by the young Antichrist. It had been stunning, the careless ease with which Adam had compelled the world around him to obey his will. And dismissing Satan himself...! Aziraphale felt the slightest pang of jealously toward the boy, who had acted bravely and without more than a breath of reluctance in the face of vastly imbalanced circumstances. Imagine him, a millenia-old ethereal being, feeling inferior to the the unflinching pluck of a fledgling human! The realization had slowly settled upon him while he watched Crowley struggle in the dark to divest the wine bottle of its cork.

  
His dear, brave Crowley! He could only begin to picture the towering inferno of the ring of fire through which the demon had commanded his beloved automobile, igniting its every surface until it barreled along roiling with flames like some sort of mythical salamander. Oh, certainly, Crowley was able to maintain such a blazing spectacle by sheer force of will. Aziraphale had been relieved, indeed, to see Crowley's familiar jaunty gait as he walked away from the Bentley. His demon answered the call to Tadfield without question, and that thought, more than anything, warmed Aziraphale's heart as he raised his eyes to the demon who had taken a seat at the other end of the bench.

  
Crowley twiddled the cork between his fingers for a second, then stretched his arm toward the angel and rested the wine bottle on the back of the bench, offering him the first drink. Aziraphale smiled gratefully, and took it. The first swallow was smooth, the notes of red fruit slipping across his tongue, with just a tiny hint of liquorice. The flavors of the earth in which the grapes had grown; the warm green summers of Bordeaux. Aziraphale had been in France shortly after the second World War. Though the untroubled beauty of the Southern regions had beckoned, he had chosen instead to wander through the more battered portions of the country, performing as many small miracles as he could get away with. The taste of the wine took him those seventy-odd years back in time, to the stricken faces of farmers tending their trodden-upon fields amidst the retrieval of all manner of battle-related detritus. Aziraphale had dressed to look, as much as he could manage, like a lower-class French citizen. (He had smiled to himself while he was composing his attire, remembering the day in the Bastille when his clothing had singled him out as _someone to be made an example of_. He hadn't imagined it that day, had he, Crowley's lingering stare? Aziraphale had, after all, hoped that the demon might see him wearing that splendid ensemble, lovely as it was. The fit was simply perfect.) But in late 1940's France he had opted to make very little impression as he wandered the roads of the Northern countryside, distributing subtle blessings in his wake. Even in this careful guise, he seemed to feel flares of recognition from humans now and again when he wove a little of his divine essence into the air. As though they had caught a glimpse of his hidden wings and halo, shimmering like heat shadows.

"Angel?" Crowley's voice brought him out of his reverie. "Penny for your thoughts."

"Forgive me," Aziraphale said, handing the bottle back. "It has been quite a day. Too much, really, to properly hold in one's head." He chewed his lip for a moment, his mind briefly summoning the bright, flat otherworld Crowley had pulled them into so that they could council Adam before his Infernal Father demanded the start of Armageddon. There was such relief there, in spite of time stopping only for the space of a minute or two. Crowley had collected himself, his distress squashed down in an effort to reassure the boy before him. 

"It was definitely some kind of day," Crowley agreed, taking a hearty swig of wine. "Agents of Hell giving both of us more trouble than we'd bargained for..."

"Agents of Earth proving extremely useful," Aziraphale continued as Crowley trailed off. "I should have known, I really should have, that Sergeant Shadwell was working for both of us, and exaggerating his capabilities. In closer proximity, I must admit he rather gives the impression of a man neither entirely suited nor used to commanding anything more taxing than an electric kettle."

Crowley chuckled. "Good thing Book Girl's book found its way to you, is all I can say."

"The only truly accurate prophecies in human history," the angel sighed, thinking of how his mind had spun in wonder as he read them. " _There's_ a thing I'll likely never comprehend."

" _More things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy_ , angel," Crowley replied, and Aziraphale beamed.

"It's all worked out for the best, though," Aziraphale said, after a long pause. "Just imagine how awful it might have been if we'd been at all competent."

"Point taken. ...What's that?" Crowley motioned toward the scrap of paper in the angel's hand. Aziraphale handed it to him. The demon murmured aloud as he examined the prophecy. 

After a contemplative pause, Crowley spoke again. "Angel... what if the almighty planned it like this all along?"

"Could have. Wouldn't put it past Her."

The delivery man, miraculously restored, arrived to retrieve the Horsemens' tools of destruction. Aziraphale dutifully signed the form, tying off the last trailing threads of the failed Apocalypse.

It was a small blessing that Adam hadn't restored his corporation with the aching bruise which had, no doubt, formed on his belly after being reprimanded -- he swallowed -- _assaulted_ , really, by his Heavenly brothers. Uriel, in particular, had been so smug. But what had especially hurt was that God, in Her divine omnipotence, apparently condoned the actions of the archangels. The physical discomfort was nothing in comparison. 

  
Of course,it was no secret that the others' regard for Aziraphale had been decreasing for thousands of years. He'd noticed more frequent displays of impatience, for one. "Yes, yes, I know, Aziraphale, but you can't just bless entire trenches of soldiers, no matter how poorly they are," Gabriel told him in 1916 on a frozen hillside at Verdun. "These soldiers are where they are meant to be, and we have to trust that. It's all part of the Great Plan." When Gabriel had departed, Aziraphale wept silent tears.  
Aziraphale concluded that he had become a misfit, a forgotten emissary at a remote outpost. The archangels must have thought him besmirched by the gross matter of Earth; tarnished by the perpetual company of humans. They had ceased to properly listen to him for centuries, and while he had often found that behavior to be convenient in relation to his own covert machinations, he now admitted to himself that Heaven had never cared one way or the other about his concerns. "You think too much," Uriel had said. 

  
The times at which Aziraphale had repressed his better judgement were too numerous to count. But he had finally decided that if Heaven was angry with him for persuading the Antichrist to spare the Earth, then he was not only going to continue thinking for himself, but also to act upon those thoughts.

A bus appeared some five hundred meters away. Crowley told him it would go to London, regardless of what the sign indicated. When Aziraphale mentioned being dropped off at the bookshop, Crowley reminded him, ever so gently, that it was no longer there.

  
Ah, yes. On top of everything else, the bookshop was gone. His lovingly curated trove of ages of human knowledge and beauty. The very best of what he could collect and catalogue, housed in a space which was too welcoming for its intended purpose (namely, _not_ selling books). The embracing wings of the shelves opening toward the center, ornately patterned carpets underfoot, and that glorious spill of daylight from the dome at the top of the rotunda. The table and chairs he'd tucked behind the spiral staircase, at which he'd periodically spoken with book collectors but had _much_ more often poured out glasses of whatever drink had struck Crowley's fancy. His little flat upstairs, where he kept the more precious texts and folios, his varied little treasures (many of them gifts from Crowley), and some of his most beloved clothing from previous eras. The armchair and couch near Aziraphale's desk, worn into softness by hours upon hours of lounging discussion with the demon, under varying degrees of inebriation. All of these familiar creature comforts had been reduced to a charred heap, beyond recovery or repair, likely cordoned off by the local authorities with metal gates and plastic tape.

  
Goosebumps prickled upon Aziraphale's skin. He hadn't been without residence, completely _adrift_ , in over two hundred years. Each time he had traveled to London in the past, the city had revealed new facets of innovation and enjoyment. It was only logical that he would gravitate towards a major hub of human activity, in order to better do the work which She had given him. And, well, he appreciated the humans' culinary endeavors, too. Large cities meant a plethora of dinner options. As Aziraphale drank again, he noted the hollow feeling of his newly-crafted stomach, which at present held only a quarter of a bottle of wine. Perhaps a quick order from one of his favorite places, when they returned to London would help him to feel less dizzy.

  
"You can stay at my place, if you'd like," Crowley said, his voice gentle. Aziraphale's heart, unnecessary thing, picked up a more vigorous beat, acknowledging the pleasurable swell of gratitude he felt at the offer. Would the Almighty see every secret note of emotion hidden in that heart, were She to turn Her gaze upon him? Did he catalogue every pang of love he felt for Crowley like Shakespeare folios and priceless manuscripts, somewhere in the fabric of him?

"I don't think my side would like that," Aziraphale replied, a twinge of bitterness in his tone.

Instead of the slow recoil Aziraphale was expecting, Crowley leaned in slightly, the nearby streetlight turning the edges of his hair scarlet, and told him, "You don't have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We're on our own side."

  
Would God disapprove of his love for the demon? Love was a component of what She had shaped him to be; would She want him to deny his very nature? The choice had already clicked into place in his mind. He had to make things right with Crowley, because for every spark of love he had ever felt, there had invariably been a spoken denial, a distancing. Only he didn't know how to mend what he had done. He didn't know where to start.

The interior lights of the bus were garishly bright, and Aziraphale thought again of the barren halls of Heaven's executive branch. As presentable as he could make himself, he could never keep from fidgeting a little in his Earthly clothes as he made his reports, feeling the scrutiny of his supervisors. They understood humanity only in the abstract, rarely engaging people at all. Aziraphale regularly had to curb his enthusiasm (and his sorrow) in the face of blank indifference. At least he was able to wax at considerable length later, in Crowley's company. At least Crowley seemed to comprehend it when Aziraphale raved about philosophical concepts, development of democratic practices, or the impact of the arts. The demon also mourned with him when humans stumbled under their own ignorance. 

Was Heaven going to issue further _reprimands?_ By his estimation, the likelihood was great. What if the archangels were emboldened by the earlier incident, and they tracked him back to London to punish him for derailing the Ineffable Plan? What would they do now that it was plain that he and Crowley were working cooperatively? That they were _friends?_  
He glanced at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. The demon had not tensed when the angel sat down beside him. Until now, the two of them had always kept a respectful distance in public, some hybrid combination of English decorum and plausible deniability. Now that the latter had been thoroughly dispelled in the eyes of everyone, could the former also afford a little wiggle room? Could he speak with approval of Crowley, without fear of reproach? Aziraphale, his throat tight and his skin prickling with both the residual loss of his home and Heaven's obvious rejection, decided to put it to the test.

"I was impressed by what you did for the boy today," he told the demon. "You are so clever in that you never directly defy Hell, but you still manage to satisfy your own agenda."

"Angel, if ever you were to describe your own _Modus operandi_..." Crowley chuckled, shaking his head.

"Well, I saw it in the boy's face, anyway. He was heartened by it. He felt secure."

"Oh, and you contributed nothing, then?" Crowley slid back slightly, turning a few degrees to face the angel. Aziraphale blushed at the veiled praise.

"My contribution --"

"--was perfect," Crowley interrupted. "You looked after the kid, too, and he appreciated it. I'm done listening to you sell yourself short, Angel. You did well today, even though I'm willing to bet your day was every bit as trying as mine was."

"Being assaulted, discorporated, shouted at in Heaven and wildly possessing a human..." _Appearing to end my relationship with my best friend._ "Yes, it has all been a bit much."

"What?" Crowley frowned at Aziraphale, his voice deepening in concern. "Who assaulted you?"

 _Oh, dear._ He ought not to have mentioned it. He was more tired than he'd thought. Dropping stitches. "It's of no consequence," he told Crowley, with the most brief touch of a hand to the demon's forearm.

"It is _very much_ of conssssequence," Crowley hissed. "Was it in the bookshop? Did other demons hurt you?"

"No, nothing like that," Aziraphale said, fluttering at the sudden intensity of Crowley's response. There was another frisson of pleasure in his chest, knowing that Crowley was so openly upset on his behalf. "What I meant to say was that... I was given a reprimand from Heaven."

"A _reprimand,_ Crowley repeated, his tone still low. "If a Heavenly _reprimand_ isn't distinguishable from assault, then I'd say that _your_ lot and _my_ lot resemble each other more than they should."

"Oh, dear... Crowley, I--" he was startled into abrupt, wide-eyed silence when Crowley reached out to still the angel's hands, which he had been unconsciously wringing. Slowly, carefully, Crowley enclosed Aziraphale's hands with his own.

"Aziraphale. I won't let them get near you again, if I can help it." Even behind the dark glasses, Aziraphale could read the demon's earnest expression. The angel didn't move, throat constricting, heart pounding, as the moment stretched. Oh, he hadn't known the depth of longing he had been concealing, for a touch given in kindness! After all the unkind things Aziraphale had uttered in the past twenty-four hours, Crowley was still reaching out to him. When he lowered his eyes at last, he felt tears slide silently down his face.

They didn't speak for the space of several minutes. The pane of glass behind the demon cast a fractured reflection of the two of them against the indiscernable black countryside. Aziraphale observed their dark mirror images, Crowley's upper body obscuring their joined hands from view of the window. Crowley eventually released the angel's hands and produced a deep red handkerchief from his jacket pocket to give to Aziraphale. 

"Do you think," Aziraphale asked, dabbing delicately at his nose and eyes, "that Heaven and Hell want to punish us for what has happened?"  
  
Crowley muttered a series of drawn-out vowels. "Well, my lot was certainly ready to punish me, today. You heard Lord Beelzebub: 'Traitor,' ze called me. And Hastur and Ligur already made an attempt to 'collect' me."

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, a fierce wave of protective strength surging through him, "I won't let them."

"You already helped to prevent them from taking me with them today," Crowley told him. Aziraphale, confused, stared at his friend.

"The holy water," Crowley murmured. 

The angel's heart made yet another leap. "You destroyed other demons with it?"

"Just one," Crowley replied.

The angel felt a renewed sense of foreboding begin to smolder, emanating outward from the space where his belly might have otherwise borne a bruise. "Do you happen to know what Hell considers suitable punishment for killing another demon?"

Crowley made the slightest shrug. "My guess is something on a scale between 'torture' and 'disintegration.'"

Aziraphale's stomach lurched in dread. This was the very thing which had worried him to his core for well over a thousand years. He could not bear the thought of his friend, the only being with whom he shared an all-encompassing understanding, obliterated by Hell for subverting the Great Plan.

Crowley obviously read Aziraphale's distress on his face. "Angel, no, please, I shouldn't have said it that way. Don't think about it."

"But I _must_ think about it," Aziraphale cried, then covered his mouth, feeling the curious glances from the three or four other passengers, who until now had ignored them completely.

"What you and I both _must_ think about is Agnes's prophecy," Crowley said, his words heavy with resolve. He motioned to the angel's coat pocket, where the paper had been tucked away again, and Aziraphale saw the glint of his serpentine eyes over the rims of his glasses. 

"'When all is said and all is done,'" Aziraphale mused, clutching the paper and closing his eyes. He took a ragged breath, then dared to speak another of the thoughts which, in the past, he would never have dared. "If all will be done for us, I don't believe I'll ever get to the end of all I wish to say." Crowley fixed his gaze on him until Aziraphale finally averted his eyes. 

"Remember Pergamon?" Crowley asked.

"I... what?"

"First century. You were doing that personal project. The library."

"Y- yes. The air circulation. It was a lovely space, in spite of that gaudy statue of Athena... " Aziraphale was beginning to recall.

"I did a few temptations around the city. They had me vying for influence over Attalus, and that was a real headache. I played it up, told Hell you were thwarting me at every turn."

"I remember. Oh, and your side project, the Asklepion. So clever! You insinuated yourself right into the serpent god role; pulled all the right strings. They kept _snakes_ in the sanctuary, they were supposed to have healing powers, weren't they? The physicians simply let them crawl onto patients. Wasn't that a little excessive?"

" _I_ wasn't crawling on anyone," Crowley's eyebrows flew upward.

"Of course not. But why were you thinking of Pergamon?"

"I was thinking of the end of your stay there. It was that tosser, John of Patmos. After you read his letter, you left Pergamon. I didn't know why. It took ages for me to bribe and tempt people before I could get my hands on a copy of it. He addressed 'the angel of the church in Pergamum.' Historians say he meant the Christian elder there, but I think I know the _angel_ to whom he was referring."

"The Christians saw us together," Aziraphale sighed, "and it must have got back to John, which I heard about later." (He _knew_ it had been a mistake to reveal his true nature to John.) "You and I had been eating at the temple. I suppose I was aware that the food had been made in honor of the Dionysus feast, and was therefore meant for a false idol, but I didn't think it could possibly hurt to enjoy it. You said something hilarious about that pompous Aristocles; I wish I could remember what it was. I realized --" Aziraphale blushed as hazy memories surfaced into clarity.

Crowley's mouth twitched into the barest of smiles. "Something had changed." The demon turned his head as though to peruse a series of recollections, searching for the right one. "I could tell. After all, we spent a lot of time together. I fell asleep on your cot more nights than my own. Ever since we met in Rome, angel, decades earlier, I had been humoring a thought."

"And the thought was...?"

"I wanted to be friends." Crowley told him. "I was so disappointed when you left, without explaining why. I had to go and find a group of bloody Christians, get a chance to read that prat's letter, and then figure out what had gotten your feathers in such a ruffle."

"He made assumptions," Aziraphale said, huffing another sigh. "I didn't know whether some other angel had been providing John with inspiration from Above. I couldn't bear the thought of Heaven finding out that I had been spending an inordinate amount of time doing pleasant things with my adversary. It was inviting us both being smited."

"Did you ever find out?"Crowley inquired, examining his soot-covered fingers. "Whether or not he was divinely inspired?"

"An acquaintance of his at a young church in Lepsi told me, privately, that he regularly imbibed wine flavored with honey from bees pollinating a field of nightshade plants. Combine that with a fair amount of religious zealotry, and..."

"He was hallucinating. I might have thought as much."

"I regretted breaking off --what we had," Aziraphale told him softly. "There was so much disagreement in the early days of Yeshua's followers. I worried about the Ephesians accusing me of being a sympathizer to the Nicolaitans. It was nearly impossible to sow unity in that climate. Add to that I couldn't intervene in anything without a Heavenly directive, and had no knowledge of _if or when_ someone was watching--"

"I didn't understand then, but I do now," Crowley said. "I just missed it, that's all. In Pergamon, I had the first inkling that I'd, er..." He shoved his long fingers into his hair, then dropped his hand again. He'd been tumbling through an explanation of something, but now that he appeared to have reached the summation, it must have proven more daunting than he'd thought.

Aziraphale tentatively touched Crowley's arm again. "Crowley, if it's painful to speak of it--"

Crowley took a fortifying breath. "... that I'd do anything for you."

Aziraphale had not yet retracted his hand, and now he froze. He clamped his mouth tightly closed, and tears threatened to reassert themselves. There _was_ a catalogue of pangs of love, and he had found it and opened every document. His heart was suddenly so full, it might have been overflowing. He felt something like static electricity as Crowley leaned to miracle a wave of incurious apathy toward the other passengers before returning to his previous position. The demon tipped his glasses down his nose a bit, and raised his eyes to something just above the angel's head. Aziraphale's halo had flickered into being, unbidden, on the Earthly plane. 

"And I for you," Aziraphale told Crowley, when he was able to speak again.

"I know that, angel," Crowley murmured, the half-smile returning. He slowly slid his arm through Aziraphale's paralyzed grasp until he was holding his hand. "Now, put away the light show before someone notices."

The night continued to hurry past outside the window as they followed the road to London, and the angel and the demon held one another's hand for the remainder of the journey.


End file.
